The Genesis of the Exalted Hero, Owain Dark
by Pajeemers
Summary: An Owain-centric story about the "great hero's" exploits, from early childhood up until he travels back in time to save the world. Told in a true Owain-style narration.
1. Chapter 1

(Apologies in advance if there's any weird tense changes, or if things tend to jump around oddly. So far everything is written in chronological order. Enjoy, and keep a dictionary handy. :) )

Noble listeners, I beseech you! Lend me thine humble ears and I shall enchant you with the magnificent tale of the legendary scion, the avenging avenger, the greatest hero to emerge from history since the death of his ancestor, the fabled first exalt- King Marth. Heed my warning, as this true tale is not for the faint of heart. It is a tale not just of birth, but of death, sorrow, and unending darkness. Tread carefully, lest my words come to haunt your very footsteps.

The beginning of this hero's great origin starts in his childhood, as many stories often do. Born to the fair Ylissean princess, Lissa, our hero knew he was destined for greatness. All of the halidom quickly came to know this, for when he was but an infant a pair of misfortunate serpents slithered into his crib, only to be seized firmly by the legendary grip of our hero's unyielding sword hand. Unrelenting and merciless, our young hero-to-be rent the reptiles into bloody fragments and cast them aside without so much as batting an eyelash. Whereupon the break of a dawn's radiant light his noble mother discovered the night's carnage and began to shriek in terror. His sire, a great fighter and teacher, emerged from his bedchamber to investigate the cause of her fright. As he espied the remnants of his son's midnight battle he began to brim with pride, knowing that our young hero would grow to become even more famous than his parents.

Alas, those two bright souls, from which the scion of legend drew his lineage, fell. Slain in the mighty battle against the most foul and accursed dark god, the kindhearted princess and her champion moved to join her exalted elder brother and sister in the brilliant ephemeral heaven. In spite of his tender age, the young prince Owain swore vengeance against the Fell Dragon, in the name of his noble family and for the kin of all the great devourer's victims.

Parentless, our noble avenger, still very young, was raised beneath the wings of the few remaining servants and soldiers of the now fallen halidom. Alongside his exalted cousins and the children of his mighty uncle's comrades. Together they trained almost endlessly, honing their skills in anticipation of the great fight they thought was in the future.

On a particular day of training, back in his early youth, our champion of justice was out slaying droves of undead. One of his caretakers, rather pleased with Owain's progress, invited him to a rare feast at the house of the local blacksmith. This renowned blacksmith was in possession of a massive canine of most fearsome visage. Quite like a mighty hound that had burst forth from the fiery depths of the underworld, this terrifying wight of death did have a snarling maw filled to the brim with blood-blotched ivory daggers. Dutiful and loyal only to its master, this giant beast was tasked with the constant guard of the man's home. On this day, by chance, his caretaker was to inform the smith of his extra guest to the feast. But fate had conspired that the man, in his approaching senility, had forgotten to inform the smith to restrain his mighty house guard. So that when our hero approached the home of the smith in order to attend the feast, the savage creature rushed him, mistaking him for an intruder. So persistent was the hound in its attacks that the great Owain's mighty hand was forced into self-defense. Mere moments later the hound was killed, its head bashed in with the young warrior's club-like hand and then doubly brained against a standing stone. Bewailing his loss of security, the smith was about to send away the boy in his grief.

"Hold, I beg for but a moment!" quoth the brave youth, "Be not engulfed by the anger that has sprung from my tutor's negligence. Surely had I not been as puissant as I am I'd have been slain. Alas, the fate has been reversed, and here lies your faithful guardian. Fear not, noble smith! For I shall guard your home in the hound's stead till you are able to train a suitable replacement." The blacksmith, elated by the youth's generous offer, gratefully accepted, knowing his home would be henceforth secured sevenfold, like a mighty and impenetrable fort.

And so our noble hero grew beneath the tutelage of these humble caregivers, who once told him of a peculiar act his great father had done. One day, when Owain was but an infant, his father had taken a rather valuable sword and a pair of his own sandals and trapped the items beneath a massive, nearly immovable boulder. This act, however, was not a moment of insanity, as others nearby often passed his father's actions to be. No, this was a challenge, brought about by his sire's sheer genius. For when our scion of legend was to move this boulder it would indeed prove his royal lineage. Not even half a decade after his father's untimely passing did our dark hero manage to unseat this immense rock from its earthy throne, thus proving both his unimaginable strength and true birth right. The weapon that young Owain obtained from his heroic feat came to be known as the dark blade, Scarlet Maelstrom. The discovery of this magnificent sword lit a fire in the young boy's heart and led him to the epiphany that sword mastery would be his destiny. After all, previous experiences had proved that Owain's massive strength was far too uncontrolled for him to fight unarmed.


	2. Chapter 2

As time drew onward the world continued to decay. The human population began to dwindle with each passing day as the Fell Dragon fed upon their lifeblood. Droves of his undead army plagued the land, prettying upon whatever form of life they could find. The eye of heaven, that once magnificent day-star no longer shone through the pitch clouds that obscured the purple sky. With each passing year, Owain grew even stronger. By the time he became a teen he could slay an army of five hundred Risen with ease. Year by year this number would double. When he could fell two thousand Risen he felt his training nearing completion. His bloodthirsty sword hand twitched constantly, aching for a worthier challenge. Though he knew his strength was more than sufficient enough to defeat the mighty Grima, he knew that none of his trusted blades had the temperament to withstand such a terrifying clash of force. His faithful blade, Scarlet Maelstrom, wouldn't stand a chance. Nor would the Three Force Sword, or the Eternal Blade of Demise, nor the Sword of Revealing Light. Not even Soul's Edge, the Sword of Grey Skulls, or the massive Cloud Buster would survive a scrimmage between him and the Fell Dragon. Perhaps if he had been chosen to wield Falchion, but it was not his by birthright. Instead, the great blade had chosen his noble cousin. Owain knew that he was destined for an even greater blade, though- Mystletainn.

The Demon Sword of old, spoken about in an ancient holy war, was once a sword that belonged to a royal family with a name long forgotten. Possession of this great weapon transferred to another royal family as a symbol of unwavering loyalty. Centuries afterward it came to be possessed by a lionhearted lord and wielded in battle both for and against his friend. After its master's unfortunate execution, the blade changed hands once more, falling to the skills of its previous wielder's war-god like son.

Back in his childhood, when our great hero first heard its most mythical name grace his ears he felt his soul burn with the intensity of a thousand suns. Owain knew within split moments that this ancient blade was the fated mate to his sword hand. If only he could manage to obtain that legendary demon blade…surely then he'd be able to smite his Fell Foe. Alas, the whereabouts of that great sword were unknown even to the greatest of historians. In spite of all his searching, our amazing hero was unable to unearth the blade.

And so it came to be that the scion of legend had no choice but to seek a knowledgeable magician that would be able to assist him in locating Mystletainn. As everyone knows, there's always a mage beside a great hero of lore. Though our dark swordsman knew in his soul that this particular companion was sadly transitory and that one day in the future a great sorcerer, a true master of the dark and mystical arts, would become his ally. With that thought in mind, Owain Dark set off to the literary abode of his group's encampments in order to address his quest with his point-hatted companion. Said compatriot, however, was less than pleased to have his precious scientific inquiries interrupted. The mysterious hero's request was imperative to their very survival, though, so he had no qualms about interrupting the mage's minor studies.

"I bid thee great salutations, oh wise scholar of magic!" greeted our hero with the flair of respectful acknowledgment.

And, like a poison-spitting winged sea serpent, the mage hissed in anger, his eyes alight with the very fires of hell. Those blazing orbs fixed upon him, flickering behind two metal rimmed glass looking-panes affixed to the magician's face. "Silence, you blubbering, delusional fool!" he whisper-shouted at the hero. "This is a library. Surely your skull isn't so thick that you're ignorant of the rules."

"Alack, my friend, for rules are meant to be challenged!" Owain countered bravely before adding points to his flawless argument. "That aside, the point is moot, as you and I are the only living beings occupying this space. Even if that were not so, what reasoning should we have in upholding the rules and traditions of a society we've spied crumbling before us throughout all of our lifetimes?"

"…much as I'd like to contest your ludicrous point of view, I have better things to do." The bespectacled magician replied in withdrawn defeat. "Surely you had some sort of reason to interrupt me so brusquely."

"Most naturally! I have come to seek your aid in defeating our terrifying foe, Grima."

At this, the mage's eyes nearly doubled in size, shortly before narrowing in intense suspicion. "I find it highly unusual that you'd suddenly take our situation so seriously, Owain." He said as he continued to eye the swordsman.

"You wound me, my great ally! It is true that there is a peculiarity in that I, the mighty Owain Dark, am requesting for assistance. You are right to be suspicious! Indeed, you must have thought, 'this cannot be our legendary hero. The lone swordsman who stalks the night as nothing but a shadow.' Rest easy, good friend, and know that you are speaking to the one and only Owain Dark. Know the immense honor it is that I have chosen you, Laurent, with your vast knowledge of mystical arts and ancient history, to aid me in locating that most magical key that shall strike down the tyrannical Grima!"

"Hmm…I'm almost inclined to be flattered. However, I know better than to put faith in your fantastical ideas. Do tell, what is this 'magical key' you speak of?" inquired the scholarly young man.

"Oh-ho! Yes, I must say, it is quite a fantastic idea!" concurred our hero.

"That's no what I—"

"This most amazing weapon hat shall strike down Grima is none other than the demon sword, Mystletainn! For years I've wandered in search of the elusive blade, searching far and wide. For I know it is destined to rest in my palm, alone. Guide me, friend, to where it may be hidden."

At this decree the magician's mouth turned downwards ever so slightly, his lips pursed together with a heavy exhale. "Owain…in spite of all my studies and the numerous resources housed in this library, I can assure you that the legendary blade called 'Mystletainn' is likely nothing more than a myth. I doubt it actually exists."

"Always the nay-sayer, aren't you? Surely you're familiar with some of the history of that great war-god like hero, the last wielder of the great Mystletainn. Mystletainn's existence, much like Falchion's, is uncontestable. But unlike Falchion, which has been faithfully passed down through generations of Exalts, Mystletainn's ownership has leaped through different families and disappeared." the sandy-haired hero countered.

"Precisely. If legends are to be believed, the blade's last owner was he...or whoever he passed the blade to. It fades into the pages of history, and that was centuries ago. Only the gods could know where that relic is now."

There was a stillness in the room before our enigmatic hero drew in a rapid breath.

"The gods! That's it! But of course...Naga is the ancient archenemy of the Fell Dragon. Who else could possibly know the location of that great blade? Laurent, this is a marvelous breakthrough! We must gather the troops and set off in search of her posthaste!"


End file.
